A Piece of Fragile Beauty
by BittersweetWhispers1
Summary: Dilandau spends some time alone with his thoughts after his Dragonslayers are killed. Dark and heavy on the imagery. Dedicated to Feye Morgan for the inspiration.


Inspired by the fanfiction, **To Mend a Rose** by **Feye** **Morgan**. This fic _can_ fit well with it, though it deviates a bit. It's just my little attempt to get inside Dilandau's mind and try out the first person perspective.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Not even the idea for this fic.

_**.**_

_**A Piece of Fragile Beauty**_

_**.**_

I grip and the glass cracks, delicate lines creeping along its smooth surface like angry serpents.

It's just a bit of crystal, a piece of fragile beauty.

My fingers tighten and the glass creaks and screams its protest, until, suddenly, it shatters and a deep red spills forth, covering my naked hands, while a rain of crystal falls to the ground.

_Broken_.

Just a piece of fragile beauty. It couldn't last, anyway.

I slump in the chair, gripping and ungripping the armrests. There is no cocky arrogance, no rage, no cruel grin. There is no need. There is no one here to see it. The thought draws me back to _them_; young boys in blue, blindly following me to their deaths. They were good soldiers, loyal and brave, the kind all generals wish for. They believed in me, trusted me, and were deluded by my own bravado, much in the way that I was deluded. And I wonder, who's to blame? Did you kill them? Or did I?

_Is my loneliness my own construction?_

The thought brings a bitter laugh to my lips. I am not _my_ construction, but _yours_. I have never been master of my own fate, only the clay shaped and molded by foreign hands. And what have you made me now? What is a general without his men? What is a warrior who cannot destroy?

The scar burns my skin, bringing back memories of you, and my own foolish arrogance. That was where it had begun, with the first strike, drawing us together, a crack in my perfect armour. I had believed in my own invincibility, in my own delusions, and I allowed you to destroy me. I am a failure as a warrior, unable to protect my openings, unable to cover my weaknesses.

_Useless._

Useless things should be thrown away.

And I wonder, do you think of me? Do you pray for my death and tremble at the mention of my name or do you laugh at the broken boy you defeated? Do you need me the way I need you?

I am trapped in the reaction. What am I without you? I cannot move until you move. I cannot destroy until you create_. __I cannot be until you are._

It is painfully ironic. I am a general, a leader, but I have never been the one in control. I have never given the first command. How alike we are, and yet the differences seem cruel. Both wild and filled with rage, yet only you are free. _And I am . . . _

The lantern flickers and I find myself staring, enraptured, the dancing flames offering comfort and excitement, a refuge from the cold reality I find myself trapped in. The air is deathly still, as if the fire draws in all life around it, burning it away, until only the flames are left. I can feel it drawing me in, tempting me to succumb to its sweet offerings. It is a game we have played many times before.

I remove the dog tags from my neck and hold them suspended over the fire, these tiny pieces of metal that tell me who I am. _So, why is it that I still don't know?_

The flames lick at the metal, blackening it, searing its mark onto the flat surface, destroying its perfection. _Perfection cannot last, anyway._ With a brief smile, I pull the dog tags back from the fire and fling them onto the floor. They no longer serve their purpose. They have become useless. _Useless things should be thrown away._

I lift the lantern from the table and walk across the tent, crushing the bits of glass beneath my boots. I pull the glass covering from the tiny flame and toss it to the ground. It shatters, yet another broken bit of glass mixing with and obscuring the original. It becomes lost in the many pieces. Slowly, gently, I set the flames by the corner of the tent, and wait, rather impatiently as they lick the fabric.

Fire is playful. It never seeks to simply destroy. It entertains, warms, and excites. I bask in its familiar comfort and gaze affectionately at the snapping flames. It grasps the tent flap, then creeps its glorious way up the side, slithering along like a writhing serpent. I step back and cannot help the giggle that escapes as I watch in admiration, as it suddenly spreads wings and the overhanging ceiling is engulfed in flame. _My serpent has transformed into a phoenix._

It tickles my senses—the searing heat, the dancing flames—until I find myself giggling uncontrollably. I can hear footsteps outside now, drawing closer as my breathing pyre attracts attention. They don't see me as I slip outside, away from the gathering crowd, and make my way towards the trees, into the dark unknown. They will find the remnants of the man I used to be, the pieces of that image lying scattered on the floor, seared and blackened by the fire.

_Broken_.

Just a piece of fragile beauty.

_It couldn't last, anyway._

I glance back just as I reach the trees to admire my handiwork. The flames must be visible from the heavens, burning vibrantly for the whole world to see.

Do _you_ see, Van?

I am fire.

I am destruction.

I am Dilandau Albatou.

_And I am finally free._


End file.
